Bloodied hands
by Silver Chessboards
Summary: He has tried writing about her on blank pieces of dusty parchment so that he will never forget. She haunts him now, a ghost of the past. Written for Hawthorn and Vine's Reverse Challenge 2014.
1. Chapter 1

Draco has come to accept the fact that everything he loves will eventually wither and fade away. When his mother died, he built walls around himself so that he would never feel again. So that nothing would again affect him so much; be it hurt, happiness or something he had never known—love.

He closes his eyes for a moment, and images of a girl flash across the back of his eyelids. Their relationship had been born out of a dark night on the astronomy tower, the beginning of sixth year when he had begun to fail himself and all those around him. She had met him there almost every night afterwards, not to see him, but to see the stars, as she had trouble sleeping. That year, the dust in the room of hidden things had settled into his lungs and the shadows had wrapped around his throat every time he entered the room. But she had made it easier for him to breathe.

An illicit affair had blossomed in the cover of the night, from accidental touches to stolen kisses and then whispered declarations of love. She had knocked down his walls, and pulled him out of the darkness and into the light. She was warm and kind, and she had made him love her without even realising it.

He thinks about how her honey brown eyes would make him feel warm even from the other side of the room. How her hair would sometimes get into his mouth when he tried to kiss her and they'd immediately burst into laughter. He thinks about the handwritten letters he keeps tied in a green ribbon underneath his bed, and of the way her soft voice used to lull him to sleep on the worst nights. She was his saving grace.

The last ray of sun in the darkness, just before it died.

Sometimes he wishes she had never walked up the stairs just to see the stars. It would be better if he had never learned to love someone—especially Hermione Granger. Maybe then, he would never have had to go through the pain of losing her.

It has been two years since he last saw her. Two years since he had held her hand and kissed her perfect lips. Two years since he had heard her voice and tried to memorise the hue of her warm eyes he will never be able to truly convey with words. He has tried writing about her on blank pieces of dusty parchment, so that he will never forget. But he always fails to capture her beauty with his words that are little in comparison to her. For she has slipped beyond the grasp of words.

Sunlight is fading away outside, the last rays of its warmth spilling across the trimmed lawns of the manor. He sits with a bottle of Firewhisky by the hearthside which brings no warmth to his cold skin. His eyes water from watching the wood burn but he does not look away. He wonders if she hates him for plotting the death of their headmaster, but he does not think he will ever know.

It has been so long, and he's almost certain she's forgotten him, but he still loves her.

The fire burns fiercely, with hues of warm yellow, orange and red. Like her eyes, he muses absentmindedly as he sips from the bottle in his hand. He thinks about her constantly, but is careful to keep her hidden in the depts of his mind with occlumency. If they knew he harboured affection for her, she would be used against him and he couldn't risk her dying.

She haunts him now; a ghost of the past. He has pictured her in his mind so many times, but it is never enough. She is slipping away from him, he realises bitterly. Her scent is slowly fading from the letters he keeps under his bed. The book she gave him so long ago is falling apart for he has thumbed through it so many times. He can no longer remember the scent of her hair or the taste of her lips. And he hates it.

He has been slowly deteriorating for the past year without her around to keep him properly sane. The frigid air in the manor has seeped into him and it feels like he will never again feel warm. With a madman living under his roof, along with his cronies, he has been constantly tense. Sleep is restless and he hardly speaks at all to anyone but his mother. The days drag by slowly and he counts the hours down to the night time, when he will fall prey to sleep and be able to escape somewhere else, even if it's just for a few hours.

He thinks it is unlikely that he will live to see the war end. But he imagines a life of happiness for her once the war is over, because she deserves it more than anyone else he knows. It hurts, but he has come to accept the fact that she will probably marry someone who isn't him. Someone good. Perhaps she will be happier than she ever was with him. Perhaps she will forget about him and move on.

And although he doesn't deserve her at all, he hates the idea of her with someone else. The thought of someone else kissing her lips, touching her hair and holding her makes him sick. Because he wants to be the one to grow old with her. He wants to wake up to her beside him every morning and hold her. He wants and he wants and he wants.

But he never gets.

She once told him that she thought of their relationship as a tree, but hadn't elaborated further on it, for it had been a cold night and she had succumbed to sleep quickly. He had contemplated the odd theory for a long time and had never comprehended it until now. He likes to think that they are two trees entwined together to make one, twisted around each other. Simply because they complement each other ao well. Like two pieces of a puzzle, they fit.

Their tree had been lone and barren during the winter, a winter that lasted years, for cruelty and hatred had reigned in their hearts. But that was until spring came, with warmth and love. It forced it's way into the soil, something completely unpredictable and inevitable. It melted the snow and slowly leaves began to sprout and flowers blossomed.

Autumn had come and he had watched as their leaves shrivelled up and drifted away, only to turn into ash. Winter has now crept into their roots and the cold has return, one that did not blossom from hatred, but the distance that is wrenched between them. It is the end of the happiness that crashed into their lives without warning.

Sometimes he wonders, what if he had been sorted into another house? What if he had been as poor as the Weasleys? What if he didn't have pure blood? Perhaps he would have had true friends to turn to. And perhaps he could have fallen in love with Hermione Granger without having to leave her.

Perhaps he would have been happy.

* * *

The next time Draco sees her, it is on a bloody battlefield when they are fighting for their cause and their lives. The sky is streaked red, for the sun is ever so slowly slipping away. He stops in his tracks for a moment, gasping for breath.

His bones feel like lead and every time he utters the killing curse, it feels like he is slowly losing his sanity. At the age of sixteen, he had been unable to murder a frail old man. But things have changed. He has spilled blood, and watched as life drained out of those who did not deserve to die. He has been used for tasks of cruelty against his will, things he would have never done had he took up Dumbledore's offer and joined the Order.

The heat of an advancing curse has him ducking, but it singes a few strands of his hair as it hurtles past, only to hit a Death Eater in the back. In the split second it takes for him to turn to face his next opponent, he sees the Death Eater crumple to the floor. Kill or be killed, that is the only thing that matters in times like these, and Draco Malfoy desperately does not want to die just yet.

He ignores the throbbing pain in his chest as he turns, poising his want at the ready. A jolt of pain goes through him at his sudden movement, but he grits his teeth and forces himself to bear with it. Earlier on, one of his own had aimed an unknown curse at him. Accidentally or deliberately, Draco did not know, but he had a feeling it was the latter, as he wasn't the most popular amongst those on his own side.

Draco almost drops his wand when he sees just who he is about to duel. Granger. The last of the sun's rays hit the side of her face, casting shadows on one side of her face. A bright red trickle of blood glistens from a cut on her cheek. It feels like a decade since he last saw her, but it really has been two years and she hasn't changed much at all. Her hair is as wild as ever, matted with dirt and blood, and falling around her shoulders in an unruly mess. No sign of recognition passes through her hardened features when she shouts out a curse. To her, he is just one of the many masked men she must kill.

"Sectumsempra!" she yells and he is quick to avoid it, pain shooting up his spine from the bleeding wound in his chest. He watches her warily with wide eyes. This is not the gentle girl he left behind on a cold morning two years ago. This is a woman he's not sure he knows very well at all. She's changed, more than he would have expected.

"Avada Kedavra!" The next curse leaves her lips almost as soon as the previous had, and Draco barely has time to sidestep the curse. The flash of green light zooms past him, and he is vaguely aware of the fact that he had only been inches away from certain death. Granger pauses for a moment, confused to why he is not fighting back. She inhales shakily, her breathing as erratic as his own. He can feel the adrenaline pumping in his veins, and his chest hurts even more from lack of oxygen.

She opens her mouth to form the beginning of a curse, and that is when he wrenches the mask off of his face. The words die on her lips, and her wand almost slips from her hand. His blond hair glints in the red light of the fading sun, his eyes alive and his breathing harsh. Granger stares at him for a second, stunned by his sudden appearance. Draco steps towards her, and she immediately brandishes her wand at him. He falters for a moment, unsure if he should approach her and feeling slightly hurt at the hostile look she gives him.

"Don't come any closer, Malfoy," she snarls, for he is an enemy to her side, past lover or not. Her hand creeps towards her pocket in a way she must have intended to be subtle, but he noticed her movement almost immediately. He's seen so many Order members do the same. Apparate out, to somewhere safer. And he's determined not to let her go just yet. Just as her fingers close around whatever small item that is in her pocket, Draco lunges for her and grabs her by the arm.

In the split second before he feels a familiar pull in his stomach, she tries to shake him off but his grip is strong and he does not relent. They land in the living room of a house he does not recognise, but he does not care to look around at his new surroundings. His concentration is solely on her and the excruciating pain in his chest.

"Granger," he gasps, as he collapses on his knees almost immediately, clutching the fabric of his shirt. When he pulls it away, all he can see is red trickling down his fingers. It has soaked through his robes, turning it darker than the black it had once been. The palpable hostility he had felt aimed at him dissipates as soon as she sees the blood. He would have felt happy at the worry in her eyes if he had not been in such pain, because it means that she cares.

She levitates over to the moth eaten couch, setting him down none too gently. He grunts at the impact his body makes, but is in too much pain to protest. There is a sense of urgency when she quickly vanishes his heavy cloak and the soaked shirt underneath, her eyes widening at the blood she sees on his chest. He had been hit by an unknown curse an hour ago and the blood had not stopped flowing since.

"What curse were you hit with, Malfoy?" she asks as she siphons the blood away with her wand.

"I don't kno—" he manages to croak out, but is cut off by her voice, frantic.

"What did it look like?"

"It was bla—no, grey," he wheezes, a bout of coughs racking his body, sharpening the pain in the chest. He tries to keep his eyes open, so that he can see her. The last thing he remembers before he slips into unconsciousness is her eyes. He decides in the split second before he becomes lost to the world is that they are his favourite colour.

* * *

The first thing his sleep induced mind registers is the touch of a cool hand on his forehead. Granger, he thinks groggily. She mutters something about his temperature, but he is too sleepy to care. Unconsciously leaning into her touch, he reaches up to lightly grasp her wrist. She pulls away as soon as his fingers graze her skin, recoiling as if he had burnt her. His eyes flutter open and meet her gaze, noting the expression of surprise etched on her face. It is the only emotion, other than blatant anger and hostility, she has expressed thus far in his presence. Granger quickly schools her expression into one of nonchalance, seeming cool and collected.

"I see you're awake," she states calmly. His throat is dry like sandpaper and hurts terribly, so he does not reply to her. Instead, he just looks at her with inquisitiveness. She seems to have developed into a strong minded woman, but he is glad to see that some things have not changed at all. There is a book on the table nearby, worn and evidently thumbed through many times. Her hair is a frizzy mess atop her head and she is dressed in a pair of striped baggy pyjamas that look like they came out of a dusty closet.

"Drink this," she tells him in a firm tone as pushes a glass into his hand, a bubbling potion contained in it. Draco grimaces at the sight of it. It is a murky grey in colour and looks utterly repulsive. He throws his head back as he downs the glass in large gulps, wincing at the taste.

"You received some severe wounds and a few broken ribs while you were out there," she tells him. "You could have died from all that bleeding, in fact. Why didn't you portkey out earlier?"

Although she says this in a very offhand manner, Draco sees a slight hint of concern on her face. It is there in the furrow between her brows and the look in her eyes. Maybe she still cares about him, even if just a little, he thinks with a sliver of warmth. When he speaks, his voice is raspy from lack of use.

"I couldn't."

"Why not? Surely you're given portkeys—"

"We aren't," Draco cuts her off. "It's a fight to the death, Granger. We aren't allowed to leave until the battle is over."

"Oh."

Granger looks at him in disbelief, but does not further comment. Instead, she changes the subject, politely asking him to sit up so that she can replace his bandages. He complies, grunting when pain shoots through his chest at his abrupt movement. If he had been looking for it, he would have caught the blatant concern that flitted through her face for a brief moment. He pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it to the floor.

Granger could not be anything less than professional when she unwraps the gauze that goes around his shoulder and under his arms. Judging from the short amount of time in which she manages to do this, Draco comes to the conclusion that she has done this many times before. He is almost tempted to ask her, but remains silent. He can't think properly with her in such close proximity. All he can concentrate on is the gentle tingle where her skin accidentally brushes against his, and the mild flowery scent of her soap.

He hopes she doesn't notice the rapid pounding of his heart.

In the past two years, she had crossed his mind almost everyday. He had created conversations between the both of them inside of his head, imagined the things he would say to her when they met once again. It was funny how, now in her presence, all the words inside of his head got jumbled up into an incoherent mess.

Gently, she applies a salve to his wounds. Draco hisses in pain when it comes into contact with his skin, but does not protest. She glances up momentarily to give him an apologetic glance, before returning to the task at hand.

Granger leaves him after she is done with the salve, and he hears her rummaging for something in another part of the house. When she returns, she has fresh bandages in hand. And then she is once again with her arms in an awkward position around his torso, rewrapping his wounds. It is so quiet at this hour, he thinks absentmindedly, as he listens to the rhythmic sound of their breathing.

Draco pauses in his thinking to concentrate on her as she leans in closer to him, her breath hot on his shoulder as she focuses on bringing the bandage around to the front of his chest, oblivious to the gaze trained on her. He finds himself unable to take his eyes off of the partially tangled locks of hair that fall around her shoulders in an unruly mess. Even when he was younger, he had liked how her hair had so many different shades in it, and that hadn't changed. Golden, mahogany, amber, honey brown, coppery bronze; there were so many lovely colours.

It is obvious that she has not other's to run a comb through her hair, but he's always rather liked the look of it; the babbling, mad scientist Hermione Granger, Draco mused to himself, trying hard not to smile. He remembers many a morning waking up in the same bed as her, and laughing at the state of her hair. Bed hair, he thinks.

He finds himself looking at the partially tangled locks of hair that falls around her shoulders in an unruly mess. It is obvious that she has not bothered to run a comb through it. He remembers many a morning waking up in the same bed as her, and laughing at the state of her hair. Bed hair, he thinks.

Granger has only just secured his bandage with a knot, when, without a second thought, he reaches out and catches a lock of her hair in his fingers. She freezes, wide brown eyes moving up slowly to meet his gaze. It immediately reminds him of a deer caught in headlights. He closes his eyes and small tendril of her hair falls from his hand. In the short space of time that follows, their breaths mingle and they sit as still as statues.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, shutting his eyes so that he will not have to see the look of hatred in her eyes.

When he opens them again, she is gone.

* * *

Days past in awkward silence, and Granger does not speak to him, not for lack of trying on his part. He slips in and out of consciousness every so often, what with his aching wounds, so he doesn't see much of her at all. She confines herself mostly to her bedroom upstairs, and Draco does not sought her out because it hurts when he moves too much; so he remains on the couch. The only time he sees her is when she comes to give him his meals, three times a day—and even then, there would be times when he was asleep.

He tried to talk to her once, when she brought him his daily dose of medicine along with lunch, but she left before he could finish his sentence and the words on his tongue died away. It is early morning when he awakes one day, a week after arriving at the safe house. He lays still on the faded green couch for a few moments, staring at the ceiling. In the distance, he can hear gulls calling and the crash of the sea against a cliff. Judging from this, he believes they are somewhere on the coast of Britain.

With silence as his only companion, Draco has been bored out of his wits the past couple days. At first, he had plenty of questions he wanted to ask Granger. Where exactly were they? How longs would it take for him to recover? Why hadn't she turned him over to the Order yet? But with her avoiding him like the plague, he never got the chance to. And so he let's time slip through his fingers like sand, for he has nothing to do. He counts the cracks in the ceiling, pokes at his food before eating it, and sleeps—the later taking up most of the daylight.

He is certain he will go insane if he doesn't have something to do. And so, with his mind made up, he waits for Granger to come downstairs. At first, it is the subtle things that alert him to the fact that she is awake. The sound of water running upstairs (Granger brushing her teeth, no doubt), and her bathroom door opening and shutting with a thump. It isn't long before he can hear her footsteps on the staircase, soft little sounds on the wood. From his view in the couch, Draco catches a glimpse of her before she disappears into the kitchen. Granger starts to hum softly, and that is when he knows she is making breakfast; he does hope it is pancakes.

Biting back a grunt with the exertion, Draco sits up, wincing at the pain in his abdomen. He wants to lie back down again, but he wants to talk to her even more, so he tosses back his blanket, grits his teeth and stands on unsteady feet. His blood circulation has turned sluggish with his lack of movement, and he aches to stretch his muscles for they've gone numb. The walk to the kitchen is not so bad compared to sitting up, because most of his agony comes from the broken ribs and the chest wounds.

He manages to reach the kitchen without whimpering or grunting in the least, rendering Granger oblivious to the fact that he is just a few metres away. Draco presses his palms against the kitchen island, watching her and waiting for her to notice him. He is unable to suppress the smirk that graces his lips when he sees her state of dress.

It is evident that Granger hasn't bothered with changing out of her sleep clothes or combing her hair. She wears a rumpled and faded blue shirt, and oversized pyjama pants that drag over the floor when she walks. Her hair is a frizzy and untamed mess upon her shoulders. She looks like a walking disaster, but he cannot help but think her adorable.

Draco watches as she prepares pancake batter, humming nonsensically to herself as she does. She continues to make breakfast, unaware of the pair of eyes watching her. It is only when she turns around, plates in hand, that she finally sees him.

"I was wondering when you'd notice me," he says quietly, breaking the silence that is almost painful. Granger blinks, surprised by his sudden appearance.

"What do you want?" she asks bluntly, the first thing she's said to him in days. It is evident that she did not think twice about her words. Granger winces as soon as the words leave her mouth, realising a second too late that it was rather rude of her. Draco shrugs, it doesn't matter. She speaks again, before he has the chance to answer.

"You shouldn't be walking around, what with your wounds and all," she berates him, with no real conviction behind her words. Blushing furiously, she carefully avoids looking at him directly, for he hasn't bothered putting on a shirt. In fact, he wouldn't mind sleeping on the couch naked, if it were not for Granger's presence.

"I think I feel well enough to walk now, Granger," he proclaims, ignoring the fact that the throbbing in his chest has intensified from his movement. Granger eyes him dubiously.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Draco sighs, exasperated. "Aside from that, I'm feeling rather hungry now. Do you mind if I have breakfast with you?"

"Put on a shirt first," Granger mumbles, brushing past him to set the plates on the dining table.

* * *

The night is calm, with a salty breeze and the sea lapping gently at the bottom of the cliff. Draco, who had not moved except to breathe in the past few hours, looks up from the book on his lap to find darkness closing in rather quickly. Time had past so quickly without him noticing, that it was already well past midnight. He makes note of the page number he had read up to, extinguishes the light above him and stands to go back into the house. The door to the backyard swings open and he slips inside, shutting it behind him with a click.

The clink of porcelain behind him has him turning abruptly to see the source. Granger sits alone in the darkness, nursing a mug of tea and reading a book with the little light from her wand. Speaking of wands, Draco thinks with a scowl, he had lost his in his last battle; the one where he had chanced across Granger. The witch glances up at him at that very moment, soft light from her wand tip giving her a morbid appearance, what with her untamed hair and the shadows that cloak her. They stare at each other for a moment.

"You'll ruin your eyesight—reading like that," he murmurs.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you cared, Malfoy," Granger replies in a dull tone, averting her attention to her book. She raises the mug to her lips and sips, not taking her eyes off of her book.

Draco glances towards the direction of the staircase, knowing he should probably retire for the night, but he decides against it. With it being so late (or early, depending how you look at it), surely he could spare thirty minutes or so for a cuppa (or so he told himself).

"There's tea in the kettle, if you'd like any," Granger offered, having caught the thoughtful look in his eye. Draco nods his thanks, and heads to the kitchen to get himself a cup of tea. It hardly takes him any time at all, and he returns with a mug of steaming tea and a plate of the biscuits he had found in the cupboard.

"Fancy yourself a biscuit?" he asked politely as he set the plate down, taking the seat across from her. She mutters a brief thank you, and takes one.

An hour pasts in silence before Draco gathers the courage to ask the question that has been on his mind ever since he had arrived at the safe house.

"Why haven't you left me yet?" he asks her quietly, shattering the silence. Granger looks up sharply from her book, meeting his gaze with one of surprise, for she had not been expecting him to speak. A moment passes and she stares at him thoughtfully, as if contemplating whether or not she should answer his question.

"I can't," Granger says simply. "I lost my portkey to Order Headquaters during the battle, and we're not allowed to Apparate. We're stuck in Kent until one of the Order visits this particular safe house, which is unlikely."

It makes sense, he thinks. The notion that she had not left him because she actually cared seemed ridiculous now that Draco thought of it. Of course, he frowns, Granger would never voluntarily take care of him, now that she hated him. Their love affair was something long gone, he realises with a hint of sadness.

It is one-fourty-seven in the morning when he stands to leave, without another word. Brown eyes follow him as he goes to stow away his mug and the empty plate, before heading up the stairs and out of sight. The wooden staircase creaks under Draco's feet as he climbs it, taking care to avoid the loose floorboard. He has recently taken residence in the last room down the hall, after declaring the couch an inhumane place to sleep.

The blond enters his bedroom, slipping under the duvet of his bed. The last thing he thinks of before he falls asleep, is her.

* * *

Every morning, as soon as he's had breakfast, or sometimes even earlier than that, he heads out to the backyard with a book, to sit down on the porch swing there. And there he'd stay for the rest of the day, immersed in a book. Granger allows him to read the small collection of books she has brought with her from Order Headquarters, cleverly concealed in a bottomless bag that make the books no burden to carry at all. The only books he hasn't read yet were the few that she had set aside, forbidding him to ever touch them. This, of course, makes Draco extremely curious, but he complies by her wishes. (He wonders if she reads romance, but was too shy to admit it. If that was the case, he certainly wouldn't mind reading them for himself to see what they were like.)

It is a particularly chilly morning when Draco tiptoes down the stairs, dressed in his sleeping clothes (clothing he had found in his drawer), and wrapped in Granger's cloak to ward off the cold. Not that she would know, of course. He intends to return it soon, without her ever knowing he had borrowed it. He pasts the dining room, glancing momentarily at the book Granger had left on the table with interest. It was one of those he was not allowed to read. But he resists the temptation to pick it up, not wanting to face her wrath.

He slips out of the house silently. The grass is dewy against his bare feet, but that isn't the first thing that he notices. Granger is standing with his back to him at the edge of the cliff, facing the sea. Dressed like him, only in her sleep clothes, she must be freezing. Without thinking twice, he undos the wooden clasp at his throat and removes the cloak around him. Walking stealthily towards her, he slips the cloak onto her shoulders. Granger turns to look at him with surprise, and then she smiles.

It is a small smile, one that he has seen so many times directed towards her friends. It isn't even a grin, but it makes him feel all warm on the inside, and his stomach tingles in a way he finds uncomfortable, but it doesn't bother him very much. Granger's very pretty when she smiles, he thinks absentmindedly. By the time he has withdrawn from his thoughts, she has turned her attention back to the sea.

There is a strong and salty breeze that combs through his blond hair. Draco sighs, listening to the crash of the sea beneath them. It has been so long since he's felt so at peace. Living under a roof with Voldemort had been horrible, and if Draco had been given a choice, he would have never joined the dark side. Granger abruptly turns her head to look at him, and he meets her gaze, noting the confounded expression she wears.

"Did you steal my cloak?" she asks with a tone of accusation.

"Why do you ask?" he inquires in a lazy drawl, deliberately avoiding her question.

"It smells like you," Granger says, looking at him suspiciously.

"And how do you know what I smell like? Have you been sniffing me when I wasn't looking?" he teases, unable to suppress the grin that graces his lips at the sight of her blushing.

"Why—" she splutters, at loss for words. "You cheeky little—"

Draco cuts her off with a laugh that none of them expect, his shoulders shaking with mirth. He hasn't felt this carefree for a long time.

"Tell me, Granger," he grins. "What do I smell like?"

"Oh, bugger off," she mutters.

* * *

He happens to come across Granger intently reading one evening. It isn't the usual sort of reading she does, from a novel. Instead, she is poring over several books, muttering softly to herself as she scribbles down notes on a length of parchment. Granger's quill bobs up and down on the page as she writes. So immersed is she in he work, that she does not notice his presence behind her. Draco approaches her with stealthy footsteps, so as to not alert her to his presence, not just yet.

He can not hear what she is saying, but as he draws closer, his ears catch a few words. One of them, however, stands out in his mind.

Horcrux.

Draco's brow crinkles in befuddlement. Why is she researching this particular topic? He had read about Horcruxes before, in a fragile book of the Malfoy library. It has been years since, however, but he still can remember most of what he knew of it. He does not realise that he had spoken his thoughts aloud, until he notices Granger staring.

"You know of it?" she asks abruptly, rising from her seat.

"Well—yes," he replies, unsure of how to respond to the fervour in her eyes. Granger opens her mouth to speak, but hesitates at the last moment.

"Can I trust you with something?" she asks him tentatively.

"I don't know," Draco says truthfully. If he returns to Voldemort, and he knows he will, they will use legillimency on him to find out where he had been and what knowledge he had gained. Draco doesn't want to risk losing what little trust he had with Granger, even if it meant not knowing why she was researching on Horcruxes.

Granger looks at him, mulling his words over in her head. For a moment, he wonders if she'd be desperate enough to recruit his help with whatever it was.

"Join the Order."

Draco is vaguely aware that his jaw has unhinged itself, and that he was also staring at her, which wasn't very polite at all. He blinks, wondering if he had heard her correctly. She looks dead set on him joining, her lips pressed together in a thin line. When he does not reply, she speaks.

"I need all the help I can get, if we're to defeat Voldemort," she begins. "And I know you never wanted to kill Dumbledore or join Voldemort's side. You never had a choice. Well, I'm giving you one now. Join us, Draco."

"Are you sure?" he asks hesitantly, unsure if it is all a joke or if she is serious. The look in her eye confirms it; she isn't pulling his leg.

"But I'll be an outcast there," he says bitterly. "They'll never accept me, because I'm the reason Dumbledore died. Your side hates me, Granger. I don't see—"

"Then would you prefer living with Voldemort again? Do you want to spend the rest of your life in a prison cell for a crime you never wanted to commit?" She is almost shouting at him now. "This is your chance, Draco. What does it matter if the Order doesn't accept you in the beginning? They'll see the truth eventually, that you're a good man and that you've changed for the better."

Granger pauses to breathe, her face flushed with anger. "Well?"

"I don't know," Draco splutters, torn between wanting to join the Order and his duty to stay with his mother. "Just give me more time, okay?"

"Why?" she asks with frustration.

"My mother," he says softly. "They have her, and I don't know who will be there to protect her if I join the Order."

Granger frowns, repeatedly tapping her wand against the side of her thigh. She walks away, muttering to herself about something, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

* * *

Someone visits on the fifteenth day of his stay at the safe house, appearing out of nowhere and rapping sharply on the door. The sound of this has Draco walking over to the window in his temporary bedroom to peer out at whoever it is. He doesn't manage to see who the visitor is, for Granger has already invited them inside—but he doubts that it would be someone dangerous. Probably one of her friends.

The blond pads over to the door and slips out, silent as a shadow. He walks down the stairs, pausing at the landing to listen to the conversation being held in the foyer. The man's voice sounds familiar, but Draco cannot place where he has heard it before.

"—should have informed the Order of your location so that we could have brought you back faster. Everyone was so worried, because we didn't know if you had died in battle. Dean and I had to comb through several safe houses all over the country to find you here; in fact, he's all the way in Wales right now."

"I'm sorry, Remus," Granger says forlornly, sounding miserable. Remus? Draco thinks sharply, but she is already speaking before he has the chance to mull it over.

"I didn't even think of sending a patronus to tell you. I was"—here she pauses tentatively—"busy."

If the man notices the tone of hesitation in Granger's voice, he chooses not to question her about it. "Well, I'll wait for you to pack your things. We'll leave by portkey when you're done."

Draco absentmindedly wonders if Granger would end up leaving him here at the safe house, all by his lonesome. Supplies were running low, and he'd be sure to starve soon. He contemplates the notion of planting the tomato seeds he had found in the cupboard, but at that very moment, Granger begins to ascend the stairs towards him, cutting off his train of thought. She grabs him by the wrist, and pulls him slightly closer to whisper to him.

"I know you haven't made up your mind yet, but there's no time now," she says softly, a note of urgency in her voice. "You can't join Voldemort, so you'll be joining the Order."

He has only opened his mouth to protest, when she silences him by putting a hand over his mouth, effectively shutting him up.

"I'll ask Remus to arrange it so that your mother will be secretly moved to another location, somewhere safe," she whispers harshly, not wanting him to speak. His tongue darts out and he licks her hand in order to remove it from his person. Granger withdraws her hand from his face with a look of utter disgust, glaring at him.

"How?"

"I'll tell you later." Granger dismisses his questions. Before he can pester her about it, she tugs on his wrist and leads him to the living room, where Remus Lupin sits with his heads in his hands.

"Remus," she says, alerting him to her presence. At the sight of Draco, the older man tenses in his seat and his hand automatically goes to his wand, but he does not move. Instead, he eyes the place where Granger's hand closes around the blond's wrist.

"Why is he here?"

"Draco's one of us," she replies with determination, eying the tight grip her former professor has on his wand. Draco can see the white of his knuckles, and the clenched muscles of his forearm. His grip does not loosen at all throughout the entire time Granger gives him an explanation. When she is done talking, the man rises from his seat to face them.

"Hermione," he sighs tiredly. "I believe you, but I cannot help but have my doubts. I hope you understand that he may never be truly accepted in the Order by the other members, but I can see that this means a lot to you. He'll be put through several interrogations involving Veritaserum and legillimency—"

Lupin seems to have more to say, but he is cut off when Granger unexpectedly throws her arms around his neck in a tight hug. "Thank you so much, Remus."

"I'll see what I can do for his mother, alright?" Lupin says softly, retuning the hug. "But that will come after he has been verified."

"Thank you," she repeats, her grip on the older man tightening.


	2. Chapter 2

The room is stark white, the only pieces of furniture being a clock, two uncomfortable chairs and a table. Outside, guards have been stationed, althoug Draco doesn't see the need to have them there. Without his wand, and his slightly sore battle wounds, he doubts he would be able to escape. His interrogator, Marucs Sawyer, sits across from him with a sour expression on his face. He seems to Draco as if he is being forced to do something extremely vile, although he is being paid for it.

"I trust that you will use absolutely no Occlumency whilst I do my job," he says in a clipped gone, fixing him with a stern expression. Draco nods silently, his eyes briefly flickering to the clock on the wall before returning to the man across from him.

"Legillimens."

Draco trains his gaze on Sawyer, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair tightly. He can feel the older man probing inside of his mind, looking through his memories and thoughts. The blond closes his eyes, and sees sixth year flashing across the back of his eyelids. Sawyer moves on to peruse his more recent memories, of living with Voldemort and, later on, Granger.

Draco can feel the man unnecessarily poking through other things, things that should remain private. Anger flares up inside of him, but he does not interrupt the man from viewing memories of his childhood. If he did, Sawyer would only accuse him of wanting to hide something from him. Time drags by slowly, and the tick-tock of the clock on the wall seems to taunt him.

By the time Sawyer removes himself from the inside of his mind, Draco is sweating heavily and his fingernails have formed crescent shaped marks on the wooden armrests.

"Done, are you?" he says quietly, a hint of anger showing in his voice. Sawyer looks at him sharply, a warning in his beady eyes, but Draco speaks no further. He watches as Sawyer pours a glass of water from the large pitcher on the table. His chubby hand withdraws a vial of clear liquid from the inside of his jacket coat.

Veritaserum, Draco thinks as Sawyer carefully measures a certain amount into the water.

"Drink," Sawyer tells him gruffly, shoving the glass towards the blond. Draco takes it, and downs the water without hesitation. Might as well get it over with quickly.

* * *

The moment he walks into the dining room, silence descends upon the table. Remus stands beside him, a hand resting lightly on his shoulder, a gesture which must have been meant to be reassuring, but it does nothing for Draco's nerves. He stares blankly at those who stare back at him, a familiar look of hatred in their eyes. The table is laden with freshly cooked food, and they seem to have been in the middle of dinner when he had walked in.

His grey eyes scan the small gathering, noting who was present. Most of the Weasley family, a woman with shockingly bright pink hair, a grim man in dark blue robes, a man dressed much shabbier than Lupin, and Granger. He can feel the weight of ten gazes on him, but only three do not hold hatred; Granger, the pink haired woman and the man in blue robes.

"Why is he here?" the man in shabby clothing asks suddenly, breaking the silence.

"All in good time, Mundungus," Lupin says, walking towards the dining table to seat himself. Draco follows, taking the seat between Granger and Lupin, deeming it the safest place for him at the moment. Across from him is the man in blue robes, looking at him thoughtfully.

"Now," Lupin begins, and all those at the table look to him. "Settle down, everyone, and I will explain. Draco here, has agreed to give information—"

Draco does not bother to listen to the rest of what Lupin has to say. Instead, he stares at the wall opposite him, blocking out everything. His eyes trace the pattern of the repetitive wallpaper, ignoring the burn of several gazes boring into him. Beside him, he can hear the sound of Granger's fork as she idly pokes at her food. What comes next is completely unexpected, but welcomes all the same.

Her hand slips into his, dainty and small compared to his rather large hand, and she squeezes gently. His head whips sharply towards her, and he looks at her with a frown, feeling befuddled. She doesn't acknowledge him, seeming extremely absorbed in the task of spearing a cherry tomato. Her hand falls from his, but he can feel the warmth that lingers in her wake and that is enough.

* * *

The next few days drag by slowly, made slightly easier by the presence of Granger. But Draco doesn't see very much of her at all, for she hides away in her bedroom most of the day. He hates it here. The air is heavy and difficult to breathe, for a lot of dust has accumulated over the years the house has stood. There is a portrait of a shrieking banshee on the second floor, and an ominous house elf that fawns eerily over Draco.

Above all, the thing he hates most is the staring. If glares could set a person on fire, Draco was certain he would have reduced to charred remains by now. It is the accusation and the hatred in their eyes that makes him uncomfortable. And so he avoids the other residents of the house, taking care to take his meals at erratic hours when the others are either done or haven't eaten yet. Draco stays locked up in his bedroom for most of the day, leaving only for meals or the loo. He has Granger's books to keep him company, although she's starting to complain about how he borrows them far too often.

It is extremely early in the morning when he quickly dresses, and hurries downstairs to eat before the others rise. Upon his arrival in the kitchen, Draco finds that he is not the only one who had this idea. He immediately tenses at the presence of others, but relaxes when he sees who it is. Granger, and his cousin, Nymphadora Tonks. Granger is sat at the table, reading from a book, and Tonks seems to be making coffee, judging from the burnt smell that lingers in the air.

The pinked hair woman turns out to be a relative of his, on his mother's side of the family. Mother had mentioned her once or twice in the span of Draco's lifetime, but only very briefly. He didn't expect her to be so—so chipper, and friendly. Most of those descended from pureblood lines, tend to be extremely sullen people—but then again, he never did get the chance to meet Sirius or Regulus Black.

"Wotcher, cousin," she grins at him. He nods at her politely, feeling slightly uncomfortable at her unnatural friendliness. He blinks rapidly, when her hair turns a violent shade of red.

"Merlin," Draco mutters, as he makes his way over to the fridge. "It's too early for that now, Tonks."

The Metamorphagus shrugs, taking a long sip from her cup of burnt coffee that she doesn't seem to mind. Making a meal doesn't take very long at all, Draco finds. Muggles have invented this ingenious breakfast food called cereal.

"Did you finish the milk?" he says to Tonks, eying her suspiciously. She looks sheepish now, her hair turning pastel pink.

"Maybe," she mumbles, taking another prolonged sip from her cup and smacking her lips. "I couldn't get the bitter out of the coffee though."

He stares at her for a moment, dumbfounded. In his frustration, he sighs. "It's supposed to be bitter."

"I can't understand why Remus would drink this all the time," she says, looking at the contents of her cup with disgust.

"Don't worry, Malfoy," Granger says all of a sudden. He turns to look at her, with a raised eyebrow.

"I made too much tea," she shrugs, "You can mix it in with your cereal if you want."

"But—" he splutters.

"I put lots of sugar in it, so it's a good substitute for milk"—here, she pauses with a thoughtful look—"besides cereal on its own is too dry."

Draco looks at the kettle warily, reaching out to grasp it by the handle. His hand hovers momentarily above it, and then he makes a decision, hoping that he will not regret this lapse of judgement.

He ends up pouring tea into his cereal. It's not that's bad, really.

* * *

In the stillness of the night time, the only sound that he can hear other than his breathing is the occasional turn of the page. With a book on his lap, and his blanket tucked around him, he is perfectly content. Insomnia has been catching up with him lately, and he does the only thing that he can to fill up the empty hours. It isn't really all that quiet, at least not in Draco's head. He can see the sights, the glint of a roof, hear the sound of the wind, and the two voices in his head.

{insert lion witch wardrobe snippet here}—

The voices of blah and blah in his head stop, and he looks from his book to his wooden door. It was not much, but Draco was convinced that he'd heard a sound. The staircases, creaking ever so slightly, but loud enough for him to discern it. Unable to deny the curiosity that burns inside of him, he slips out from beneath his blanket and pads to the door. Thankfully, the hinges of his door make not a sound when the door swings open, and Draco steps out into the hallway. He is clad only in his sleep clothes, holding his book—or Granger's—in one hand.

Draco's not entirely sure why he even bothers to see who's awake at this hour. It's two in the morning, and—after all—it could have just been the house elf, Kreacher prowling about. Shrugging, as he's already left behind the comfort of his bed, Draco begins to descend the stairs. His blood circulation has gotten sluggish after so long, and it's good to stretch them a little.

When he reaches the kitchen, he's not at all surprised to see Granger there. He moves silently past her, noting that she hasn't bothered to make any tea this time. A few minutes later, he is pouring Earl Grey into two mugs, steaming rushing up to kiss his face. He takes the seat beside her, setting the two mugs on the table.

"Thank you," Granger whispers softly, taking the mug in both hands. He nods, soaking in the warmth of the porcelain though his fingers. It creeps through his skin and into his blood, banishing the icy coldness that comes with chilly weather.

She hasn't opened her book yet, and his, too, sits on the table untouched. For a long while, they sit there, relishing the silence, the warmth of tea, and the comforting presence of the other.

In the morning, they are both moved to separate safe houses.

It is the last he sees of her for two months.

* * *

"Weasley!"

"Now, Draco dear. Don't get your knickers in a twist," Fred snickers. Whether it is George or Fred Weasley, Draco can't tell and he doesn't really care. His hand wavers ever so slightly when he aims it at the older boy, shaking from anger. The little twat had drawn on his face while he was asleep, taken pictures, and had distributed them to everyone currently residing at Grimmauld place. Not only that, but he'd also eaten all the cereal.

"You look fabulous, did you know? In fact, I wouldn't mind getting one of those penis drawings for myself, temporary or not."

"Penis?" Draco yells, his face slowly turning red. "We'll see who still has one in five minutes. I'll fucking chop off—"

"Well, you don't look all that bad," Granger says from beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder to restrain him from following through with his incomplete promise. Draco growls, glancing sideways at her. The brunette is actually fighting a smile at the photo in her hand.

"Give me that." He scowls, taking the picture out of her hand. It was extremely early in the morning, and the residents of Number 12 Grimmald Palce would soon be rising. Draco brandishes it in Fred's face, trying hard not to hit the redhead.

"If you don't burn all the copies of these pictures by the time everyone is down for breakfast, I won't hesitate to tell everyone about your fourth year at Hogwarts when you—"

"Okay, okay," the redhead says hastily, turning red at the mention of said event. He quickly hurries away, red to the roots of his hair.

"What was that all about?" Granger asks curiously.

"Nothing, at all," Draco says smoothly. "Please, excuse me, I have to get these horrid drawings off of my skin."

By the time the rest of the household has breakfast, and Draco has washed away the drawings on his skin, Fred Weasley has successfully erased all evidence of his latest prank. However, he didn't manage to destroy them in time, for a few early wakers had already seen the picture. This consisted of majority of the household.

Draco decides to join them, for a second attempt at having breakfast, as Fred had finished all the cereal from earlier on. When he walks into the dining room, conversation comes to a standstill, but he pays it no heed. He pulls out the empty seat beside Hermione's, and sits down. He has only begun to butter a piece of toast, when Tonks bursts out into laughter. Draco scowls at her, self consciously reaching up to brush down the fringe of his hair to cover his forehead. There were traces of the ink that he hadn't been able to scrub away.

Beside Tonks, Mad-eye Moody has an amused glint in his eye, and his lips are twitching ever so slightly.

"Don't tease the boy, Tonks," Arthur chides, but even he is unable to suppress his amusement.

"Shut it, the lot of you," Draco snaps, but there is no conviction behind it. He's trying to pull together the remaining pieces of his dignity, is all.

* * *

Smoke clouds the air, making his eyes water as he ducks behind a large mound of rubble. Around him, fire burns and spreads, eating up all that it can. A stray green flash of light hurtles past above him, hitting a pillar. Draco staggers to his feet, knowing the battle is yet to be over. He can hear people dying in battle, the sounds of shouted curses and screams of agony.

Over the months, word had spread quickly in Voldemort's circles. They now knew him to be a traitor, and both sides, apparently, hated him and wanted him dead. Not too long ago, Seamus Finnegan had aimed an unknown curse at him. Draco highly doubted that it was a slip of the hand, for Finnegan had excellent aim in battle. The sound of someone wheezing and choking on the little oxygen that there is, has him turning his head sharply to the right.

There is a person half buried underneath the rubble, a woman, judging from her small stature. She mumbles something to him, indiscernible amongst the sounds of battle and fire crackling in the background. He squints his eyes at her, his vision made hazy by smoke. Recognition dawns upon him, and Draco curses himself for not realising who it was earlier. He falls to his knees and immediately starts to pull her out of the rubble that must be crushing her.

It is Granger. Her messy hair matted with dirt and blood, her own. She is bleeding profusely from wounds on her back, blood having soaked through most of the fabric of her shirt. She whispers something to him, again indiscernible. Coughs wrack her body and she wheezes for breath, the smoke in the air intensifying tremendously by the burn of the flames around them.

The heat of the flames has made him dizzy, and uncomfortably sweaty. He is vaguely aware of how Granger's blood has stained his hands red, mixing with the dirt there. His breathing quickens, and desperation runs through him as he manages to get the last of the rubble off of her.

"Granger!" he almost screams at her, when he sees that she has closed her eyes to the world. "Don't you fucking dare! Don't you fucking die on me!"

Her eyes flutter open, and she meets his gaze, listening to the sound of his voice as he speaks frantically. "I'll be sending you to St. Mungo's, okay?"

Draco fumbles in his pants pocket for the slip of paper there. It is crumpled and almost torn in half, but it is still full of the colour coded stickers Lupin had issued to all members of the Order. His hands tremble when he pastes the orange sticker on her forehead. The orange one meant that the soldier had sustained heavy wounds and needed immediate attention.

"You'll be okay," he chokes out, his heart breaking at the sight of her crumpled and broken. Memories of what they once had flashes quickly in his mind, but disappear as soon as they had come. He has a battle to fight, and cannot let his emotions get the better of him. Granger nods feebly, fighting to keep her eyes open. A moment before he presses the portkey into her upturned palm, he kisses her chastely on the lips in an act of desperation. It is a rush of hot breath passing between two mouths, a quick brush of the lips, and the fervent pounding of two hearts.

She is gone as soon as the portkey touches her skin. Draco thinks a prayer to whatever god that may be listening, and rises to his feet, clutching his wand tightly in one fist.

* * *

The walls are stark white, full of doctors and nurses rushing about on daily business. Nobody looks too surprised to see him there, a man with bloodstained clothing and several layers of dirt and smoke on his skin. Tension is high between the two sides, and people are dying everyday. Here, in this hospital, and all around Britain, he thinks morbidly as he approaches the woman sat at the counter.

"I need to see Hermione Granger," he says to her, surprisingly calm for a man that barely got out of a battle alive.

"Name?" she questions, in a dull tone. No doubt she has said that countless of times before.

"Draco Malfoy," he replies through gritted teeth.

She looks up at him sharply, for the first time, and her eyes widen in recognition. "I-I'm sorry, but only family members—"

"People are dying everyday!" he almost shouts at her, angry at her and even more at the world. "Do you think anyone even has a family to depend on anymore? For fuck's sake, she could be dying right now!"

The room turns silent, and all heads turn to look at him. A man walks up to him, holding a clipboard under one arm.

"I'll take you to her, lad," he says calmly, breaking the silence in the room. As they walk to Granger's room, Draco learns that the man had just finished tending to her not to long ago. By the time he arrives there, he has learnt that Granger is doing fine. According to the doctor, she had suffered from an immense loss of blood, and could have died if she had not arrived at the hospital when she did. The man, Mr. Richards, leaves him in front of Granger's designated room, giving him a pat on the back before walking away.

Room three-hundred-and-sixty-seven turns out to be almost the same as the rest of the hospital. Everything is coloured in white, even the window panes. He feels out of place here, bloodied and battered, wearing clothes that he's certain will smell of smoke forever. When Draco shuts the door behind him, his eyes immediately land on her. They'd cleaned her up, vanished away all the blood and grime, and if Draco didn't know better, he'd never had thought she'd even fought a war in the first place.

Granger looks peaceful in her sleep, the only sign of the life inside of her was the gentle crest and fall of her breathing. He stands with his back against the door for a moment, content to watch her heart beat on the muggle screen on the wall. Tentatively, Draco moves towards her bed. He sinks into the stiff plastic chair beside her bed, suddenly realising just how fatigued he really is.

His grey eyes trace her every feature, taking in all that the war had inflicted upon her, and all that had remained hers. There is a scar in her left cheek—just below her left eye—, a bruise on her jaw, and a cut on her lip. He looks at her—really looks at her— properly, for the first time in two years. With her strong façade, researching about Horcruxes, and doing all that she could while her two best friends were off hunting them, Draco had never realised how tired she must be.

She must have felt extremely lonely, he thinks. Helpless even. Without Potter or Weasley standing by her, like they always had.

On instinct, Draco takes her hand in his and squeezes gently, like how she had two months ago. Even though she isn't awake to be reassured, he does it anyway. Draco sighs heavily, closing his eyes for a moment, and leaning back in his chair. Somehow, he drifts off to sleep. But just as he is tottering on the brink of unconciousness, Granger squeezes back.

It was hardly anything at all, and later on, Draco would wonder if he had imagined it.

* * *

Granger is released from the hospital within three days, going with promises to eat more and take her medications at the specified timings. But he doesn't see her for another three, while she stays at headquarters, not fit enough to use a Portkey. It is a rainy day when she arrives at the safe house he is at, all the way in Wales. She finds him sat at the window, absentmindedly watching the raindrops trickle down the glass. Draco turns at the sound of her coming in, hand automatically closing around the handle of his wand.

He visibly relaxes when he sees who it is, rising on an instinct, perhaps to greet her but he is not sure. He doesn't know what to say, and, evidently, she doesn't either. It is silent for a moment, the rain outside filling in the empty gaps with white noise that means nothing. They stare at each other, both feeling rather awkward. Granger shifts her weight to one foot, rubbing her hand up and down one arm.

Draco thinks about when he saved her life during battle. The few seconds before he puts the Portkey into her hand. He really hadn't meant to kiss her. It had been something instinctual, an act of desperation, because he didn't know if she'd make it out alive. He decides not to mention it, for it would make things unbearably awkward between them, and could possibly ruin whatever they had now. Perhaps it was a friendship, but Draco couldn't be sure.

Besides, there is a chance that Granger might not remember it at all. For she had been on the brink of unconsciousness then, worn out by all that she had gone through. Draco clears his throat, and meets her eyes with a steady gaze.

"How are you feeling?" he asks softly.

"Better than the last time I saw you," she replies, a hint of a smile on her lips.

They never mention the kiss, and soon, it is forgotten.

It is a week later, when he finds himself once again at headquarters. Parchment rustles, the fire in the hearth crackles, and there is the thump of a book closing. Beside him, Granger sighs heavily, closing her eyes and massaging her temples. He bites his lip, glancing at the clock on the wall. It is three in the morning, and they have stayed up for quite a while now, reading through old texts they had found in the attic. The books are of differing subjects: Goblin-made Jewellery, the History of Witch burnings, a story written in ancient runes, and others. Some of the books are so old, the parchment threatens to crumble between his fingers.

They've done all they can regarding researching Horcruxes, and all the possible places Voldemort could have hidden the ones he had made. Just two days ago, Granger had sent Potter and Weasley a patronus—without anybody but the two of them knowing—, telling them about all they knew. If she had written a letter to them, it could have taken months to reach their hands.

Draco subtly glances over at Granger, all thoughts of goblin metal infused with ancient spells gone from his mind. She has bags under her eyes, and looks sickly pallid, like she hasn't been eating or sleeping well. He comes to a quick decision and stands up abruptly, causing his chair to topple over. This earns him a look of curiosity from his fellow Order member, but he merely nods at her and makes for the door.

"I'll be back soon," Draco says to her, just before he leaves. The last he sees of her, before he heads down the hallway, is her befuddled expression. The blond hurries down the stairs, careful to be light enough as to not make a noise. Upon reaching the kitchen, he tosses tea leaves in a kettle and pours more than enough water for two.

When he next climbs the stairs, he is balancing a tray laden with tea and slightly stale biscuits he found at the back of a cupboard. During times like these, biscuits are a luxury no one can afford, but he hopes they'll cheer her up, stale or not.

"I made tea," he says softly, shutting the door by gently bumping his hip against the wooden surface. Granger looks up from the text she is reading, and smiles tiredly at him. The metal tray meets the table with a soft thunk, and he takes the seat next to hers.

"Thoughtful of you to," she comments warmly, as she picks up her mug.

"It's nothing, really," Draco replies, taking a prolonged sip from his tea. It scalds his tongue as he swallows, but it sends a pleasant rush of warmth through him. Draco glances sideways at the brunette, watching as she languidly sips from her own tea. The crease between her brows has smoothed out, and there is a hint of a smile playing on her lips. Although making tea isn't very hard at all, he feels like he's accomplished something.

"I like these biscuits."

She acts as if they aren't stale at all, her smile widening.

"I do too."

* * *

It is one of the coldest days of Draco's life, when he visits the graveyard where many of the fallen had been buried. Tonk's and Fred's funeral had been a few days ago, but he had chosen to go on a different day—so that he could mourn for his cousin and friend in solitude.

The snows of the past December had just begun to melt, and was slowly turning to slush beneath his feet. Tonks would have loved to watch the snow melt, he thought with a bitter pang. She would have loved to see the world blossom once again with greenery. Spring was—no—had been her favourite time of the year.

Fred, he thought the name with a pang of sadness. The redhead had been one of the most lively people Draco had ever met. He had been one of the first to accept him, right after Tonks and Granger. Draco unconsciously brushed his fingers over his cheek, right over the spot where his mischievous friend had drawn a phallus only months ago.

They had been killed in the midst of the battle a week ago, and their bodies had been found afterwards. Fred's hair had glowed fiery red in the dying light of the sun, that day. And Tonks—she had marched into battle without fear, not knowing that she would not come out of it alive. It was funny, Draco thought sadly, how the life in such magnificent people could be extinguished so quickly.

It had been dark when their bodies had been found, and Draco had been one of those sent out to recover those of the Order who had passed. In the shadows, the fire in Fred's hair had gone dull, and the light in Tonk's eyes had died. The sound George Weasley had made upon discovering his twin dead was something imprinted into Draco's memory, for it was a sound so heartbreaking that it could never possibly be forgotten.

Draco stops in his tracks at the sight of someone familiar, standing only metres away with her back to him. Granger is dressed warmly in a faded red coat, with her hair wild around her shoulders. She kneels in the snow, and Draco immediately thinks of how her knees must have gone numb with the cold. He is just about to call out to her, when he notices something.

Her shoulders are shaking silently, a sign that she is crying. Draco's eyes widen in surprise, for he has never seen her cry before. In fact, when he was younger, he had thought of Granger as a person who was incapable of it. She had always been so strong, bearing through everything life had thrown at her without complaint.

To see her like this, so vulnerable, makes him uncomfortable and rather upset. So he steps closer. And when he comes to stand beside her, he kneels and gently lays the flower in his hand upon the grave. A daisy. Granger turns to look at him, her eyes red and her cheeks streaked with salty tears. He meets her gaze, his grey eyes full of bitterness and pain.

"They didn't deserve to die," he says grimly, his voice hoarse from hours and hours of silence.

Granger looks away, to the grave in front of them. In a choked voice, she replies.

"I know."

Silence leaves it's mark on them, and time passes, but neither of them move.

* * *

A hubbub of people talking excitedly, fireworks, stashes of alcohol, and joyful yelling. This is what Draco remembers of Victory day, five months later when the war ends. With Voldemort killed by Harry Potter himself, the final battle ends with tears of relief and of pain. So many had died in battle. Bodies littered the battleground, covered with blood and wounds.

It is night by the time, he manages to slip away from the celebration at Grimmauld Place long enough for him to Portkey away to a safe house in Kent. It is the one where he had stayed at months ago, when Granger had unintentionally brought him back with her from battle. He finds it empty and—thankfully—silent. The joyful celebration had been too much for him to handle.

It isn't meant to be like this, he thinks with a pang of sadness. George Weasley had still not emerged from his room since the death of his beloved brother. Teddy Lupin would live his life as an orphan, never to know the gentleness of his father or the liveliness in his mother. There are now three empty seats at the Weasley's dining table, with the deaths of Fred, Ginny and Percy.

The fact that war has finally ended, after years, is a bit hard for him to process. Any second now, he is half expecting Lupin to send a patronus requesting for him so that battle strategy may be discussed. Draco undos the clasp at his throat, leaving his cloak in the foyer. It is a relatively warm night, and it has been so long since he has seen the ocean. He longs for the sound of the water washing on the rocks, for the salt in the breeze and the peace that comes with it all.

He feels dirty stepping through the house to the backyard, for he is still wearing what he had donned during battle. There are blood stains on the fabric of his clothing, and they have been so dirtied that it is almost impossible to tell if it had originally been another colour.

The door to the backyard swings open silently, and shuts behind him with a click. He isn't surprised to see Granger there, standing at the edge of the cliff with her back to him. Without thinking, Draco finds himself walking towards her. He comes to a stop just before his foot would meet air, and stands beside her. The wind roars in his ears, combing through his hair and kissing him with salt. The ocean is as wide and as beautiful as it had been the last time he saw it.

A sense of peace washes over him for the first time in days. It would be nice to live by the ocean, he thinks absentmindedly, unaware that Granger is watching him intently. It is only when she says something unintelligible, that he turns to look at her. Her unruly curls are all over the place, floating in the breeze, and she has this look in her eye that he cannot decipher. It almost looks...like affection, even. His heart skips a beat in his chest.

"What did you say?" he asks loudly, for the wind is now loud enough for his voice to be easily drowned out.

Granger frowns, an expression of annoyance on her face. His pulse beats erratically when she fists his shirt in her small hand, and pulls his face down so that he may hear what she has got to say. The look of exasperation in her brown eyes immediately turns to mischief.

"I said," she begins with a grin, shouting to be heard above the wind. Her next few words come as a whisper and she looks away, blushing.

"What?" he shouts at her, perplexed.

Granger makes a sound of exasperation and, pulls him closer by the fabric of his shirt. Before he has time to comprehend what is happening, her lips meet his. Almost immediately, all the thoughts in his head melt away to nothingness and he is kissing her back. She tastes like years of longing, and the euphoria of returning home. When Granger pulls away, breathing heavily and red in the face, he looks at her properly for the first time that day.

There is a slight trace of sadness in her eyes, what the war did to her. It is hardly there, drowned out by the contentment and happiness inside of her.

"I've been wanting to do that for a while now," she tells him in a normal tone, for the wind has died downto a slight breeze now.

"Does this mean that you want to be with me?" he asks, in disbelief.

"I don't see why not," she smiles softly at him. "The war is over now, isn't it? You're a good man, Draco Malfoy. I'm just sorry I hadn't realised that earlier."

"B-But—" Draco is speechless now, and breath leaves him in a whoosh of air. He wants so badly for her to be his at last, but deep down inside he knows he doesn't deserve her. Not at all. There are so many questions inside of his head. What if she won't be happy with him? What if he isn't enough? What if he hurts her? He doesn't want to hurt her again, not like how he had.

"No buts, Malfoy," she says promptly. "I know you think this is a bad idea, but I don't care. I'm happy with you, Malfoy."

"But we'll argue everyday. And I'll say things I don't mean, and I'll hurt you—I don't want to do that." Draco looks away.

"It's what we do, Ma-Draco," she corrects herself. Draco feels his stomach tingle at the sound of his name rolling off her tongue. "We'll argue and we'll hurt each other, but it wouldn't be normal without that."

He realises at that exact moment, that she is determined to be with him. No matter what he says, nothing will deter her from being together wit him. The thought of this has butterflies erupting in his stomach, but he represses the urge to kiss her. Sometimes, he thinks that she is too good for him. Granger—no, Hermione—takes his silence as acceptance, and continues to speak.

"As for what we should do now, Draco," she sighs, staring out at the ocean with a look of contentment. "We move on."

"But what if we can't?" he asks, frustrated.

"Of course you can," she says, turning to him again and taking his face between her warm hands. He unconsciously leans into her touch, but even the comfort of it cannot quell the doubts in his head.

"I have nightmares," he breathes. "Every night, I see Voldemort torturing my parents, and you, as a way to get to me. He breaks me every time, and I wake up sweating. I sometimes see Fred and Tonks dying—"

"You're only human, Draco," she says, cutting him off. "Everyone has nightmares, even me. The war has taken so much from us. Are you just going to sit by, and continue to let destroy you?"

"No," Draco exhales shakily, and repeats it again, "No."

"Then move on," she whispers, a moment before rising on her tip toes and pressing her lips to his again. This time, Draco wastes no time in kissing her fervently. Her words have sparked something in him, he realises.

He doesn't want to live his life as an empty shell. He doesn't want to let the nightmares haunt him anymore. He doesn't want to die wondering what it would have felt like to marry the girl of his dreams. He wants to buy a small home by the seaside, and move in with her. He wants to spend the rest of his days drinking tea with her, and arguing with her about the most silliest of things.

He wants to be happy, with her.

* * *

Two months later, they have moved in together into a cosy home in a small wizarding town near Wales. Draco spends his days writing stories about the adventures of a boy called Brynn, and Hermione—being the ambitious person that she is—takes up a job as an Unspeakable at the ministry, although she does most of her work from home. The wizarding world is still recovering from war, but things are moving at a fast pace, what with peace restored and Kingsley as Minister of Magic.

It is a cold day when Draco wakes up in bed. He forgets to blink away the sleep dust on his pale lashes when he rouses, for she is the first thing the sees. The morning sun bathes her in it's dim light, illuminating her beauty. It brings out the different shades of russet and gold in her hair and the glow of her milky skin.

He counts the gentle spattering of freckles dusted across the bridge of her nose and memorises the way shadows play with the structure of her dainty collarbones. He traces her with his eyes, wandering from her perfect lips to the gentle rise of her nose and the thick lashes that frame her eyes. Her breathing is even, but hitches when he gently brushes a finger over the line of her jaw.

Hermione's eyes flutter open, and she yawns, blinking. Her sleepy eyes meet his, swirls of honey brown with lovely flecks of gold in them.

"Morning," she mumbles sleepily, pulling him closer by the waist. Her legs are entangled with his, and she holds on with a firm grasp, as if she is afraid that he would dissipate into the air the moment she let go.

"Go back to sleep," he whispers to her, kissing her gently on the crown of her head. She mumbles an okay, and soon enough, sleep has reclaimed her.

Sometimes, Draco finds it hard to believe that she really is there. There would be times when he would wake up in the early hours of the morning, scared that she would have left him. Only the touch of her skin would reassure him and lull him back to sleep. With her around, his nightmares have ceased to be, although there is the occasional one. War has left a mark on everybody, but he believes that he will heal in time.

And so with this thought in mind, he closes his eyes and falls into slumber, perfectly content.


End file.
